


the time it took

by Joana789



Category: SKAM (TV)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Fluff, Insight, Isak's POV, Isak's Past, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, because when have i ever written anything else
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-26 06:32:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12053301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joana789/pseuds/Joana789
Summary: Isak kept looking at him, kept seeing what it was like to be proud. What it was like to be yourself.orFive people who taught Isak how to love.





	the time it took

**Author's Note:**

> I could write fics like this for days and days and days, if anyone would be willing to read them.

 

_Dad_

  
Sometimes Isak wishes he could skip this — thinking about his dad. Wishes he could cut him out of his memories, and his past, and his mind. For the most part, it’s because that’s what would be fair when it’s precisely what his father did himself — cut them out, his wife and then his son, went away, got himself a new, shinier, better family. Healthier, maybe. Easier to deal with.

It wasn’t fair.

Isak remembers that he used to sit in his old room and listen to the sounds of the house, later, to the washing machine working and the kitchen sink dripping and the TV playing in the background, and he used to imagine his dad in between the sounds, in the empty spaces where he should be, still. He used to imagine him calling Isak’s name, or cooking something in the kitchen, or even fighting with his mom again because anything was better than silence. Isak used to imagine him coming back home, to them, to him.

It took him a while to get rid of that hope.

There is a father-shaped hole somewhere deep inside of Isak now, somewhere between his heart and his soul, and for a long time, he tried to fill it with something. Anything. With studying until dawn, until he couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore. With talking to Jonas on the phone, for hours and hours, because if he focused on it hard enough, he could almost believe it helped. With kissing random girls at parties, out on his own private search for a spark, a feeling, closeness that never came.

But they are doing better, now, both of them, their weird father-and-son arrangement that Isak’s dad is trying to revive with once-a-week phone calls and once-a-month money transfers and occasional dinner invites. And Isak has stopped trying to fill the void, now. Maybe it’s supposed to be there, he thinks. Maybe it’s okay that it’s there.

So Isak picks up the phone, every week, and spends the money on rent and fast food, and agrees to a dinner or two. They both can play this game.

He is not the bigger person here. He is still angry, some days more than others, and he still can’t forget, and he still remembers — remembers the quiet hours, days, weeks; remembers the heaviness in his chest that didn’t let him sleep, the confusion that settled in his bones and kept his mind going.

But if this was, by any chance, supposed to teach him anything at all, then maybe it’s that — not to forget, but to forgive. Forgive others. Himself.

  
*

  
_Mom_

  
Isak has a collection of birthday cards hidden at the bottom of his desk drawer, in flashy reds and bright yellows, with pointy, small words written on them, in blue or black or red ink. They all say the same thing — _”Happy birthday, Isak”_ — and underneath stands _”Mom”_.

The ink is smudged because of how many times Isak has traced the letters with his fingertips.

Isak was seven when he first started noticing that his mom was a little different sometimes; he was eleven when his parents started drifting apart, and the door slamming and late night fights began. He was fifteen when the fear in his chest settled for good, when everything started to crumble. Sixteen, when he left his mom on her own.

Seventeen when he came back.

Because this is the woman who taught him how to tie his shoes and brush his teeth and fold his clothes and make his bed. And Isak remembers the screaming and the crying, but he also remembers her laugh, and her smile, and her kisses that made every wound hurt a little less. Her fingers that wiped all his tears away from his face when he needed it. Hugs that made him feel safe, and real.

He doesn’t know what his mother’s reality looks like — if it’s bright and neon, like the birthday cards he gets from her every year, ever since he can remember; if it’s dull and grey because the medication she takes drains the colours out, if it’s just like his own but a little crooked maybe, a little bent. But sometimes he prays to the god his mom so strongly believes in that, however her reality may look like, let it be good for her. Fitted. Suiting, and safe. She deserves that, because the past wasn’t her fault, because it wasn’t anyone’s.

He sees her more often now — a step he took and doesn’t regret. Mom is doing better these days, has made new friends and picked up new hobbies, and she’s okay. They’re both okay.

Isak wonders if it was easy for his dad, easier than it was for him — to walk out of the door, to never come back again, to leave the past behind, and the burdens, and the troubles. For Isak, it wasn’t easy at all.

But his mom says, ”You came,” when he drops in to visit her after school, once. Says, ”You came back.”

She sounds happy. That’s something Isak hasn’t heard in a while, something he realizes now that he missed. He looks at the person who showed him how to love, unconditionally and always, no matter what, and smiles.

He came back. Maybe this is what matters the most, he thinks — to always come back, no matter how many times you leave.

  
*

  
_Eskild_

  
The day Isak moves out of Kollektivet, Eskild throws him a tiny goodbye party, with champagne and a cake that has _”Bye, Baby Jesus”_ written on it. He talks about how good it will be to have Noora back, someone who actually cleans and cooks and pays rent on time, and Isak pretends he doesn’t notice how Eskild’s shoulders are just a tiny bit slumped the whole time, how his voice is just a bit quieter.

When Isak left home over a year ago, all he had was a backpack full of things packed in a rush and a heart in his chest that was heavy like a stone. A boy that left his troubles and run. A boy that could only feel shame, settled deep, burning like embers. It stayed with him for a long while. Came rapidly, crushing like a wave.

Went away like night giving way to dawn, slowly, dissipating.

Isak remembers looking at guys in that bar where Eskild found him, remembers eyeing them with envy, remembers downing shots after shots after shots. And he has no idea why Eskild decided to help him at all, but he figures, now — that’s just who Eskild is. He cares. Nurtures.

For a while, Isak thought it was a lie, a facade that would mirror his own. Eskild was loud where Isak was quiet, and cheerful where Isak was grumpy and he was nosy and always there and everything Isak was not. But it wasn’t a lie at all. Isak has never met a person more honest, more authentic.

And somewhere between nagging Isak about rent and complaining about how he never cleans and hanging out in Isak’s room without permission, Eskild has managed to pry Isak open, even if only a little. Get through his walls with gentle nudges and with not so gentle ones, too, with an arm around his shoulders, with an _If you ever want to talk._

Eskild wasn’t exactly an example to follow, because Isak couldn’t do that yet, but he was someone to observe, at the time. Isak kept looking at him, kept seeing what it was like to be proud. What it was like to be yourself.

By the end of their little party, when Even is saying goodbye to Linn and Noora, Isak drifts to his soon-not-to-be room, looks at the cardboard boxes and trash bags all full of clothes and books and little trinkets, and that's where Eskild finds him. His eyes are dim.

”I’m going to miss you,” he tells Isak and then wraps him in a hug.

Isak hugs him back, for once, says, ”Thank you,” and it comes out quiet, sincere. _Thank you for everything you showed me,_ he doesn't say. _For all the things you taught me._

”Will you miss me, too, little baby gay?” Eskild asks, teasing and just a little hopeful, and it has Isak huffing out a laugh.

”Maybe,” he says, rolls his eyes, and then, as he lets Eskild go, he says, again, ”Thanks a lot.”

  
*

  
_Jonas_

  
The first thing Isak has ever shared with Jonas was a desk at school when they were kids. Then, it was homework, and food, and stupid jokes that made them both laugh, a room when Isak stayed over, clothes, their first bottle of beer.

The heavy stuff came later.

Jonas was the first one to hear when Isak’s dad left, and he listened to Isak’s silence for what had to be hours, then, and didn’t say a word about Isak’s quiet sobbing. He never said It’s going to be okay. He never said _Don’t worry_ or _Don’t think about it_ or some other shit.

Maybe that’s why Isak felt what he felt when he was looking at him back then.

He doesn’t really know what that was, to be honest. He doesn’t want to call it love, doesn’t want to call it infatuation, but it was _something_. A crush. Something more; something less. He liked to listen to Jonas’ laugh, liked his curly hair and his strong opinions and the fact that he was always around, no matter what. That has always meant a lot.

Jonas was near when nobody else was, and he always picked up his phone, even in the middle of the night, and he always knew the right thing to say and the right thing to do and Isak just — _really_ liked him. More than he should. He was jealous of all the girls Jonas flirted with, he remembers. Because Jonas was smooth and honest and made all of them feel important, feel special. It all seemed so _easy_ to him.

Isak used to be jealous of that, too. Of that ease.

He wonders, sometimes, if Jonas knows. If he knew back then, even. Because Isak was careful not to let anything show, but at times, he feels like he wasn’t careful _enough_ , not quite. When his eyes lingered too long, and his touch, a ghost of something he couldn’t have but tried to get either way. It was stupid, and petty, and selfish, and he knows that now, but still wonders if Jonas does, too.

He would do it all differently, now. If he could go back in time, that’s one of the things he would change.

Things don't disappear just because you choose to ignore them, and Isak learned it the hard way. His feelings for Jonas stayed around for a while. His feelings for boys didn’t vanish either, no matter how hard he tried to make them.

That’s just how things are.

They go to a party on a Friday and then sit in a bathtub, slightly tipsy from the pregame already, smoking in somebody else’s bathroom like they’ve done times and times before, and Isak thinks about it, comfortable by Jonas’ side, feeling the alcohol already buzzing in his veins. How Jonas is always around, still. How he’s been around for years.

”You okay?” Jonas asks him, then, passes him the joint, and Isak nods, smiling, says, ”Yeah.”

  
*

  
_Even_

  
Even draws Isak a picture of two boys sitting on a windowsill smoking joints. Then, it’s a sketch of two boys kissing in a pool, then a drawing of two boys kissing in bed, two boys dancing in a kitchen, two boys eating something in a hotel room, and hugging outside, in the middle of the night, and kissing under a mistletoe.

”Look,” he says, grinning, as he shows Isak a drawing of the same two boys carrying huge cardboard boxes up a flight of stairs, ”It’s us.”

Isak pins all of the drawings above their bed, in order.

He thinks about this, from time to time. He thinks about it a lot, even, because the nights when he can’t fall asleep still happen, even if Even’s arms are wrapped around him, securely, keeping the shadows at bay. Isak looks at Even next to him and thinks about their history, then, and their present, and their future. About what they’ve been through and about what’s waiting for them, still.

He always ends up thinking — whatever it is, out there in the big world, they’ll get through it. That’s what they do.

Even is the bravest person Isak knows. Everything about him is brave — his smile and his laugh and his silence. The bad days and the good days and in-the-middle ones, because they all come together at last. And Isak wishes he could learn how to be like that, wishes Even could teach him — how to meet the troubles head on, with purpose. How to never let your insecurities win, in the end.

In the end, that’s what matters.

Even makes Isak a list, one day, a list of things he loves about him the most. He makes a deal out of it, dramatic as always, rips a sheet of paper out of his sketchbook, then pretends to think for a long time, biting his lip. Isak makes a face at that when he sees, rolls his eyes and pretends not to look as Even fills up the page.

Even writes _”You, you, you”_ all over again until he runs out of space on the paper and then smiles at Isak with the kind of warmth that threatens to seep into Isak’s bones and never, ever leave.

Isak falls in love with him all over again, in that second. It’s a blur. A blink of an eye.

And there are a lot of moments like this — when he falls in love, again and again and again. When Even kisses him good morning before he leaves for work. When he calls him in the middle of the day just to ask how that biology test went, or lets Isak pick a movie without complaining. Pins Isak’s hips to the bed, pupils blown wide and eyes dark. Sings shitty love songs for him just to make him smile after a long day.

Isak doesn’t think it’s possible to fall in love just once. It happens over and over again.

He rips a sheet of paper out of one of his notebooks, draws a little stick figure on it, and underneath the picture, he writes, _”The person I love the most.”_

”Look,” he tells Even, ”it’s you.”

Even’s eyes light up and he laughs brightly, then presses the shape of his smile into Isak’s lips with a kiss.

Isak falls and falls and falls.

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me on [tumblr!](http://sanasbakkcush.tumblr.com)


End file.
